


When the Dust Settles Down

by DarlingJenny



Category: Pure Genius (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:33:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingJenny/pseuds/DarlingJenny
Summary: They're lucky the investigation didn't turn out worse; they're lucky the FDA only decided to ban James from Bunker Hill. But things aren't the same with him gone, and Zoe is starting to realize that absence makes the heart grow fonder . . . or maybe absence is just making her finally confront feelings that she's been hiding from herself for a long time. James/Zoe, post-E13.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm disappointed that they didn't order any more episodes of this show, especially given all the unanswered questions it left us with, so I decided to write something up. Given how few episodes there were, this story required huge amounts of speculation as to future plot as well as trying to get a grasp on characters that we really didn't get much screen time with, so if anyone seems OOC or anything, I do apologize!
> 
> This was originally going to be a one-shot, but it grew way out of control so I split it in half. The second half should be up some time next week.

o.o.o

The sad thing is that Malik doesn't even look surprised when she breaks things off with him, just resigned. And it makes Zoe wonder how long it's been obvious that she has one foot out the door. (Since the beginning, maybe, or maybe just since Lydia's prom, when she looked out at the dance floor and for a split second she just _knew_ —)

That doesn't stop him from responding, though; he asks if there's something they could work on, or if it's something he did, and then: "Is this because I asked about meeting your dad? I didn't mean to move so fast; I was just thinking that since he's in town—"

She shakes her head. "No, it's not that. Well, it is, but—it's just . . . when you suggested that, it made me think about our future and where I see this going, and I realized . . . I didn't see it going anywhere." Maybe that was too harsh, based on the look on his face. It's a problem with her: she doesn't handle emotional conversations well. She says too much, or makes the other person say too much, and it always turns out so awkward.

She's actually been putting off this conversation for a while now, to avoid that awkwardness, but it finally became too much: she can't keep ignoring the fact that Malik is so much more invested in this relationship than she is. When they started dating she'd thought that maybe time would change that, but she's given it five months. And if after five months of dating she still gets a little fidgety when he starts talking about his feelings for her . . . if after five months of dating she finds herself envying her single friends, just a little . . . 

His brow furrows, and after all their time together she knows what he's going to say before he says it. "Is it—is there someone else?"

He doesn't say who he means; he doesn't have to. He's been insecure about it since their relationship started, which would have annoyed her a little if she hadn't understood why he'd think that way. She shakes her head firmly. "This is about us. You deserve to find someone who wants to be with you as much as you want to be with her."

His expression is resigned. "And you're not that person?"

She's run out of her planned speech; she just shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

He's silent a moment, then: "And now we have to see each other at work and pretend everything's cool?"

She fights the urge to point out that this is why she's so against dating coworkers, and that he's the one who was so sure it would be fine. But it's clear he didn't mean his statement as an accusation, just as a . . . rhetorical question. "We can be adults about this," she says. "Our jobs are more important than . . . a little awkwardness."

"You're right," he agrees, his eyes still a little downcast.

It's for the better, she reminds herself as she watches him gather his things to leave the restaurant, as they say their last awkward goodbyes. This part of it is always the worst, this feeling that you've just caused someone you care about pain. But when he turns the corner and disappears from sight, she can't deny that she feels, just a little, like a weight's been lifted from her shoulders, like a window's been opened to let the sunlight in. Malik's wonderful, but he's not what she wants and needs right now, and it's a relief to finally admit that to herself.

She's smiling and collecting her things when the TV on the wall by the cash register catches her eye; it's on silent but it's playing one of those entertainment news shows, which is currently showing a montage of footage from a movie premiere in London: the theater. The crowds. Red carpets. Actresses in ball gowns. And one sandy-haired tech billionaire with very casual taste in footwear.

She doesn't let herself look too hard at the reasons she averts her eyes from the TV so quickly. But she does think it was silly of Malik to think that James Bell is the reason she broke up with him. After all, she hasn't seen the man in months.

o.o.o

Breaking up with Malik was the right thing to do, but Zoe's not thrilled about the way it's affected her life at Bunker Hill. Things have been off here, ever since the FDA learned they'd given Louis Keating the PAI-120B, and Malik was one of her last bastions of normality in the workplace. But now that he's become stiff and tense around her, she's lost that.

Dr. Channarayapatra's about the same as ever, but that means she's as formal as ever, so she doesn't do much to help the mood. Dr. Wallace, never a very boisterous man, has just sort of collapsed in on himself since everything went down. He's been in hot water with the FDA and with his wife; apparently he deliberately took the blame at first for the PAI-120B affair, and when James managed to convince the FDA that Wallace was entirely innocent, the accusations simply changed to "He ought to have known what was going on in his hospital." He managed to keep his job, but just barely, and these days he doesn't dare put a toe out of line; long gone are the days of brainstorming crazy, cutting-edge ideas and 3D-printing artificial lungs. And on top of all this, Zoe suspects that Wallace feels guilty that he couldn't protect James, which on paper is a crazy idea—James is a grown man who knew perfectly well what he was doing what illegal and dangerous—but she can't deny, there's something about James that just . . .

And who knows what's going on with Angie and Scott? Something happened, she's sure of it, because for the last two and a half months they've been weird around each other: avoiding being alone together, only speaking to each other as much as is absolutely required. And they used to be such good friends. But Angie won't say a word about it, clamming up or claiming to be needed elsewhere every time Zoe tries to talk to her about it, and Scott's awfully good at keeping secrets locked up behind that toothpaste-ad smile.  When they're not avoiding each other, they're burying themselves in their work, and Angie's still distracted with her mom's health, and they've just both been absent in a lot of ways recently.

But mostly, Zoe admits to herself, it's the loss of their larger-than-life founder that's changed the hospital, that's left it like a lamp with the flame blown out. What was once the most astounding medical facility in the US has become an average hospital—less than average, in certain ways, because now they don't dare do any out-of-the-box thinking, knowing how closely the FDA is monitoring everything they do. At least they still have the good tech, and they still have the funds to treat people for free, and they've still got some of the top doctors in the country working there, but it's not the world-changing, cutting-edge hospital of the future she signed up for. And she can't help cursing James, at least once a day, for jeopardizing this amazing goal they'd all worked for—that she, as his first hire, had worked for by his side for so long—because he got too attached to a patient. She remembers, with perfect clarity, that conversation they'd had just days before everything went to pot, when he'd gazed around the hospital he'd built and marveled at how amazing it was, and it still baffles her that he could say that while knowing perfectly well he was about to destroy it all because he was convinced he knew better than the FDA.

She should be thankful, she knows, that it wasn't worse. They all could have lost their jobs; she could have been torn away from the friends she's made here. She was lucky—they're all lucky—that the FDA agreed to leave Bunker Hill alone as long as James agreed to have no involvement with anything related to the hospital, outside of providing funding. (She says they've been lucky, but the rumor is that the hospital staying open was actually the doing of James' connections, including an influential senator whose daughter was treated for cancer at Bunker Hill.)

But it doesn't feel lucky, when the end result is that everyone's walking on eggshells, and that Dr. Wallace feels guilty . . . and that James is gone. The man has his faults, but everything is a little duller and grayer with him gone; she believes in the impossible a little less with him gone. And she curses him again for using the PAI-120B.

(But every now and then she walks past the room where Louis Keating stays, his GSS now so far progressed that he can do little but lay there, a prisoner in his own mind, while his bodily functions are increasingly taken over by machines that pick up the slack from his failing nervous system. It'll be four to six more months of animal testing before the FDA even considers looking at the drug again, and Mr. Keating might not have that long. And survival aside, it breaks her heart to think of the hope the man must have felt in those few days when the PAI-120B gave him back his life, and how much worse that moment of hope must make him feel now.

Those moments when she stares at Mr. Keating's still form, those are the moments when she can't be angry at James. She knows what it's like to get attached to a patient, to be willing to do anything— _anything_ —to help them. She doesn't know what James saw in Mr. Keating, what made him bond with the man more than everyone else in the hospital, but she can understand why that attachment made him do something stupid. Because it could make absolutely anyone act stupid, including her own self, and James, with his confidence that he always knows best—James, who doesn't always know what to do with his feelings but who still feels them so deeply it _hurts_ —)

(Those are the moments she misses James the most.)

o.o.o

A month after Zoe breaks up with Malik, he starts dating someone new—not someone else from the hospital, but a girl he met at the grocery store.

"It's too early to say," he says when Scott asks him about it in a moment of downtime. "But it's good so far, and . . . I really like her."

The look he gives Zoe is a little awkward, but she just smiles at him. "I'm glad for you," she assures him. "You deserve someone great." She means it. And maybe his seeing someone new will help to loosen up their currently overly-formal professional relationship.

Her own dating life is a non-entity. She's been on one date since she and Malik broke up, and she mostly agreed to it just so she could force herself at least for one night not to sit at home and eat takeout. It was . . . fine. Not bad, but not good enough that either of them wanted a second date. But she's not too broken up about that; with the hours she works, it's not like she has a ton of time for romance.

Because she's throwing herself into her work right now, even more than usual; it's a way to distract herself from how empty and fraught the hallways of Bunker Hill feel right now, and to keep herself away from the break areas where her fellow doctors don't quite have the light in their eyes they once did, and to make up for the fact that Bunker Hill is no longer pulling miracles out of its sleeves (James is no longer pulling miracles out of his sleeves) which makes her feel like they're letting their most desperate patients down. Melancholy, she decides, is the feeling she's trying to run away from: melancholy and ennui and weltschmerz and every other fancy word she can think of for this sort of pervasive pensiveness and low-level sadness. She imagines herself sometimes as one of those lizards that run on the water, trying to splash along fast enough to stay upright and avoid sinking: she runs herself ragged to avoid sinking into melancholy.

And she's getting really settled into this routine—the one she had in med school, where she works until she can't stand up straight, then eats takeout and falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow, and barely even calls her dad let alone talks to her friends—when something comes along to shake things up.

It's a warm Saturday morning in May, and she's getting off an all-night shift when she is suddenly struck by an overwhelming desire for Angelica's breakfast tacos. Half of her fights to go home and just go to bed, but the other half of her, having heard the siren song of homemade flour tortillas, turns her car in the direction of the restaurant without waiting for permission.

She places her order and sits on a bench to wait, all with a half-smile on her face. It's impossible to be in this place and not think of James, of the morning they found this spot (what feels like a lifetime ago) and the dozen times they've been since. James, sitting across from her at that table just there by the window, gesturing wildly with his drink as he tells her some hilarious story about the shenanigans he got up to in school. James, piling pico de gallo on his taco because he loves spicy food and because "It's always good to have more vegetables, right? You're a doctor, you should approve."

— James, walking through the door of the restaurant. That's not a memory; that's what's actually happening, and Zoe finds herself on her feet before she realizes she's moved. What are the odds, that they'd be here on the same morning? is her first thought, and her second thought is how strangely pleased she is to know that he still comes here, to their spot, and it's not until both of those thoughts have passed that she remembers that she's not entirely pleased with him right now.

He's dressed in his usual suit/t-shirt/casual shoes combo, like he's attending a business meeting somewhere very tropical and warm; his hair is carefully styled in its usual slicked-back way; his expression is cheerful. He looks very normal at first glance, is what she's saying, and she thinks that you'd have to know him very well to see the fatigue hovering around his eyes.

All of this passes through her head while he's still peering up at the menu—as though he doesn't get the same thing every time—and then he turns and sees her standing there. She's suddenly very aware that she's been wearing the same clothes for 26 hours, that her hair is unwashed and pulled back in a messy ponytail, that she's pretty sure most of her makeup has been wiped away over the last day. But if James notices that, it doesn't show on his face, which breaks into one of those quiet, thoughtful smiles of his that makes his eyes look warm.

"Brockett," he says softly.

And she is shocked at how happy she is to see him. She hasn't been pleased with his decision to administer the PAI-120B, but maybe absence makes the heart grow fonder, or just more willing to excuse past transgressions, because as she looks at his smiling face for the first time in months, suddenly the past seems to matter less than it did thirty seconds ago. "James," she smiles.

Should they hug? Would that be weird? They've never really been huggy with each other before, but she hasn't seen him in over three months, and he's not precisely her boss anymore . . . And she wants to, a little. Is it weird that she wants to?

He leans toward her a moment, as though the same thoughts are passing through his mind, then hesitates, and in that moment voices call his name.

"Guys!" he says, momentarily distracted, looking toward the two men just coming in the front door. "Come meet my . . . friend—" she thinks she's the only one who heard that brief hesitation— "Dr. Zoe Brockett. We actually discovered this restaurant together." He turns to Zoe. "Chad and Zach," he says by way of introduction. "Two friends of mine from college, who are in town for the weekend. So I knew I had to take them to get the best breakfast tacos in town."

Chad and Zach greet her warmly and then turn their attention to the menu, and Zoe knows any hugging moment she and James might have had is past.

James looks her up and down with an analytical eye. "All-nighter again?"

"Do I look that bad?" she laughs.

"No, you look great," he says quickly, then flinches. "I mean—I've pulled enough all-nighters with you to know what it looks like." He shoots her a grin.

"Good save," she chuckles. "Yeah, it's tacos and then bedtime."

"And how are—how's—"

"Zoe?" calls the girl at the counter, and hands her the brown bag with her food in it.

"Egg and chorizo?" James guesses.

"The usual," she agrees, and the conversation stalls for a moment. What do you say to your famous billionaire boss who was driven from his own hospital in shame? Is it helpful or unkind to update him on what everyone's up to at Bunker Hill?

And what do you say to a friend who you care about but who endangered your job and hasn't been in touch with you in three months? How friendly do you assume he wants to be?

In the end she never has to make that decision, because Chad or Zach, whichever the blonde one is, elbows James. "You ready to order?"

James glances at him, then looks apologetically at Zoe. "I guess I'd better order," he says. "And I should let you get home and get some sleep. Don't doze off on the way home, okay?"

"Of course," she says, feeling like there should be so much more to this conversation, if only she could figure out what to say. She shifts her weight onto her front foot, hesitates, changes her mind and shifts back.

He opens his mouth, hesitates, and turns the movement into a small smile instead.

"Let's keep in touch," she says, uselessly.

That seems to surprise him. "Yeah," he says hesitantly, and there's nothing to do now but turn around and leave.

And she's just reached the front door, still going over the conversation in her mind and wondering if there's a way she could have handled it better, when she hears footsteps behind her and her name being called.

"Brockett!"

 She turns just in time to see him approach with open arms, and instinctively she flings her own around his neck as he draws her into a hug, her takeout bag bouncing against his back. And it's ridiculous how much of a relief she finds it, and how sorry she would have been to have left without this. They've never hugged quite like this before; they've put their arms casually around each other's shoulders, and dozed on each other's shoulders and laps a time or two, but nothing this fervent, nothing this enthusiastic. His scent is familiar—incense and jasmine and the faintest touch of chlorine—but the way he feels in her arms is brand new. And for a moment, she doesn't want to let go.

And she wonders, how has she not let herself realize, until this moment, that her missing him is the reason everything's been so flat lately?

"It's really good to see you," he murmurs in her ear.

"I miss you," she admits.

His arms tighten for a moment, and then he steps back.

"We will stay in touch," he says firmly. "Is your phone number still the same?"

She nods, a smiling blossoming on her face.

"Mine too. We'll text. I promise."

They bid each other goodbye, and she walks out to her car, a spring in her step that she hadn't even realized was missing. She's fishing in her bag for her keys when her phone buzzes, and she turns it on to see a text from James:

_James: Enjoy your taco._

And the day looks just a little brighter.

o.o.o

That brightness follows her all weekend, and back to Bunker Hill on Monday morning: the feeling that a wrong has been righted. But the improved mood is not just in her head, she realizes when she sees Dr. Wallace smiling, genuinely smiling, for the first time in ages.

Angie, of course, has all the details. "He finally officially reconciled with his wife over the weekend," she says confidentially over lunch. "She's still not sure about moving out here, but she's going to consider it when their son goes off to college in August."

"Good," says Zoe warmly. "That poor guy."

Movement at the other side of the courtyard catches her eye, and she glances up to see Scott walking through a doorway. Angie's gaze drops down to her sandwich.

Zoe fights back a sigh, thinks carefully, and then speaks. "I know that if I ask you what's wrong between you two, you'll say that nothing is. Or you'll get up and leave."

Angie frowns.

Zoe presses on. "So all I'm going to say is, I wish you guys would work it out. We already lost James, and we almost lost Wallace, and I don't want anything to happen to you two; I don't want one of you to quit because things are so weird between you. I need you around. Both of you."

Angie is silent a long moment, staring out over the courtyard. "We didn't fight," she says finally and abruptly. "We—I did something that made him unhappy. And now he's avoiding me. Has been avoiding me. For three months." She laughs bitterly. "Turns out once you get in the habit of staying out of someone's way, it's pretty easy to stay in that habit."

Zoe doesn't ask what this thing she did was. She doesn't think Angie wants to tell her, and anyway she has a guess; Angie's always hidden her crush on Scott behind her claims that she's simply curious about what makes a priest become a doctor, or vice versa, but she's certainly never fooled Zoe. Working together on her mother's cancer treatment would have been a prime moment for Angie to give in and act on her feelings.

"And you haven't talked about it since?"

"We haven't talked about it at all."

"Maybe it's time to start."

Angie rolls her eyes, and Zoe just smiles. "I'm sick of this place being so gloomy all the time," she says. "I think it's time we take Bunker Hill back. So to speak."

Angie leans back, examining her thoughtfully. "What's gotten into you?"

Zoe shrugs. "I don't know, I'm just thinking very positively this week."

o.o.o

_James: i did it, i made the curry_

_Zoe: Really? How'd it turn out?_

_James: :(_

_James: mekong cafe's is much better_

_James: and now my kitchen is a mess_

_Zoe: Good thing you've got your housekeeper to clean up after you._

_Zoe: If you can't tell, now that I know you have a housekeeper, I'm never going to let you live it down._

_James: joke's on you, she doesn't come in on thursdays_

_Zoe: What happens if you make a mess on a Thursday?_

_James: i just have to live with the evidence of my shame_

Zoe tries to keep her laugh to herself as she slips her phone back into her pocket, but clearly she fails because when Nina falls into step with her, the nurse says with a smile, "I haven't seen you smile in a while."

For a moment Zoe isn't sure what to say; Nina and James were almost something, back before everything went wrong, and Zoe's still not actually sure whether they stayed in contact after James left Bunker Hill. But on the other hand, even if they did stay in contact, even if they were close friends or heck, even dating or married or something, it's not like Zoe has anything to hide. They're sending friendly texts, nothing more. She and James are allowed to be friends.

In the end she just says, "I got a funny text from a friend," which Nina just smiles at. Sometimes Zoe wishes—wished it especially back before James started texting her—that she had the guts to ask the nurse if she's heard from James, if they've stayed in contact, if they ever went on a proper date the way he wanted. She's never said anything because it's not her business; she made sure that James' dating life was not her business. But, well, sometimes she's curious.

Not that it matters. James can date whoever he wants. Obviously.

"Well, I hope you keep smiling," says Nina warmly, and heads off toward Mr. Keating's room. Zoe watches her go, then pulls out her phone.

_Zoe: Did you end up adding the shrimp?_

In the week and a half since their chance meeting at Angelica's, she and James have been texting, cautiously at first but with increasing frequency and informality as the days go by. They've never really texted each other much; back when he was still at Bunker Hill they saw each other every single day so there was no need to text much, and the most they'd exchange was offers to pick up breakfast tacos and the like. Their conversations now aren't much more substantial—last night he gave her minute-by-minute updates of his first foray into an Asian grocery store—but there's a lot more of them. And it's fun. He makes her laugh, which is nice. She hasn't laughed much lately.

_James: NOPE turns out you have to shell and devein them first?_

_James: gross no thanks_

_James: i will leave that for the professionals_

_Zoe: Seriously. I'm glad cooking makes other people happy, but I am not a fan._

Her walk takes her past a large window, and she glances down and notices Angie and Scott, actually talking for once: they're standing about a mile apart, and their body language screams discomfort, but they're talking. She smiles. 

_James: hey, what are you doing saturday?_

_James: around brunch?_

She blinks, and then for reasons, she can't quite name, looks covertly around herself, as though someone's going to be spying on her conversation. 

_Zoe: Nothing, why?_

_James: angelica's is offering two new flavors this week_

_James: im on their mailing list_

_James: want to check it out?_

And she hesitates. She's never unhappy to have a reason to get breakfast tacos, and it's been a long time since she did something that could be classified as social. But on the other hand, hanging out with James? It feels weird, in a way. Even at their closest, back before she started dating Malik, they never saw each other outside of work besides the occasional meal run after a long shift.

But on the other hand, she's reached a good place, emotionally, with James; she's finally admitted to herself how much she's missed him, and she's working on forgiving him for nearly getting the hospital shut down. And she'd like to see him, she thinks; it's probably healthy for her to get out of the house more than she does, and she doesn't have enough friends in town that she can be picky. And anyway, he's not her boss anymore, so it's a little less weird on that count; now he's just a donor to the hospital.

_Zoe: Sounds good, but I have to leave around 10:30 so we'll have to keep it short._

_James: ill set an alarm and kick you out at 1030 on the dot_

She finds herself looking forward to the outing all week, but it turns out to be a bit of a disappointment, at first. It's easy enough to text James, because they keep things so light and insubstantial and she has time to think of responses. But now they're at Angelica's, trying to have a real conversation, and it is so hard to keep avoiding the elephant in the room: Bunker Hill. Everything she wants to say somehow ties back in to the hospital.

She learns that in the time since . . . everything happened, he's begun work on a new app and decided to invest in a startup company, which has named him to its board. What he does not say, but which she hears loud and clear, is that he struggling to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied now that he's not allowed at the hospital.

When he asks her about her life, she doesn't know what to say. Her life is her work right now, that's literally it, but she doesn't want to talk about it and make him feel bad, so she keeps trying to divert the conversation to the weather, to the news, to every inane topic of conversation that’s ever been pressed into service as small talk. It's mostly just making every conversation attempt peter out.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of this stilted, awkward conversation, James hesitates, then looks up at her from under his brows. "Was this a mistake?"

She blinks. "What?"

"This." He gestures at the table, the tacos, the unspoken words hanging between them. "It's all been . . . it's been kind of weird, right? Maybe our hanging out was a mistake."

She surprises herself with the force of her "No!" as she sits up straighter. "It's good, I'm glad we're hanging out. It's just . . ." She hesitates, then decides to be honest. It's the best policy, right? "I don't know what to say when you ask me what I've been up to, because the answer's just 'work' and I didn't know whether hearing about Bunker Hill would make you uncomfortable."

A relieved smile breaks out over his face. "Brockett, that's fine," he says. "I can hear about Bunker Hill. I came to terms with all that a long time ago."

"You sure?"

He nods.

So she tells him about work, about the patients they've had, about what the staff are up to. She leaves out that the mood has been a little somber lately; a taco shop on a May morning with only a few minutes left to talk is not the time to start that discussion. She talks about Dr. Wallace reconciling with his wife, about Dr. Channarayapatra's latest amazing surgery, about Angie's nanobot research, about the elderly patient who thought Malik was her long-dead husband and kissed him in an examination room.

James laughs aloud at that story as Zoe gathers her things to go; it's 10:30 and she needs to get to the hospital to receive an arriving patient. Then he looks right at her—she gets the impression it takes a certain amount of effort for him to do so—and asks, carefully casual, "So how are things with you and Malik? Still good?"

Has she really never told him? But then she supposes it makes sense; you don't bring up your breakup in the middle of a text conversation about what's the ugliest car you've ever owned. And he'd have no way to track them from afar; Malik doesn't post anything very personal on Facebook, and she doesn't even have a Facebook account. "Actually, we broke up," she says. "Early April."

James’ face goes very blank. "Oh," he says. "Oh."

She nods.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he does sound like he's trying to be. But he's not looking at her like he's sorry.

She doesn’t know how to respond. So she doesn’t.

o.o.o

There was a time when she considered it, the possibility of her and James together. This was back when Bunker Hill was brand new, before Dr. Wallace, before Scott, before Malik; Dr. Channarayapatra and Angie were newly hired, and the hospital was just getting off the ground. Everything had a sort of maverick feel to it; this was new territory they were exploring, and they had so much freedom, and the future was so bright. James didn't know much about medicine at the time—although he devoured medical journals and textbooks at a shocking rate—and he followed her around all the time, observing her with patients, watching nurses check IVs, asking constant questions. When a big issue came up, he'd gather her and Dr. Channarayapatra and a handful of staff to ask for input, and he had to practically drag it out of them, because they were not accustomed to his sort of brainstorming.

But then they got the hang of it, and miracles started to occur. Angie, like James, was learning medicine as she went, but she picked it up quickly; her first successful project was 3D-printing a cranial plate, and the look on her face as she realized she'd just used her engineering to save a life was one Zoe will never forget. They were a little understaffed then, leading to even more all-nighters than she currently pulls, and also to the discovery of Angelica's tacos. She almost didn't mind the all-nighters, knowing the lives they were saving, knowing that she was a valued member of a team, along with three of the smartest people she'd ever met. It felt like it was them against the world, and it was a heady, wonderful feeling.

She hadn't known, then, what to make of her new boss, this tech genius who'd decided to get into medicine with no prior training or experience. She'd heard of him, of course—everyone had heard of James Bell, the developer of the Bunker app and an incredibly wealthy man—but when she first met with him to discuss the job, she'd been shocked by how young he was and, to be quite honest, how attractive he was. That's never changed. She's always found him attractive, and funny, and brilliant, and fascinating, and . . . well, suffice to say, there was a time when she considered it, the possibility of her and James together.

But never very seriously. She's had her rule about dating coworkers for a while now, and dating her boss is even less okay, in her eyes. And the thought of dating James in particular . . . he's always been an odd little duck, but he was even more so then—really terrible at relationships and human interactions. You'd have to be blind not to see how much he cared about his patients, but also he couldn't always be bothered to remember people's names. And when he visited a patient, you never knew if he was going to say something incredibly blunt, or pay for the patient's entire family to be flown in from Utah.

He's used to being the most intelligent person in the room, and in those early days he could be very arrogant and caustic when people didn't fall in line with his ideas. It took her months to realize that his overconfident facade hid another trait that he rarely allowed to be seen at the hospital: vulnerability, the sort that comes from never feeling unconditionally loved by his mother, never really accepted at school, and isolated by his own brilliance as an adult. He kept that all hidden, so for ages she thought "James knows best" was the only version of James. That was certainly a mark against him, in the dating game.

There was also the rather shocking fact that James is famous, a genuine celebrity and a billionaire. He's always showing up in _Scientific American_ and the _Wall Street Journal_ and TMZ, and that never mattered within the walls of Bunker Hill but it's always very weird to turn on a TV and see his face there. People who are on the cover of _Time_ don't fall for people like Zoe Brockett.

Or so she thought, for a long time.

And that leads to perhaps the most important reason of all that she never took the thought of dating him too seriously: in all their time together, until the moment he asked her out, he had never done anything to indicate he was interested; he's very good at playing his cards close to his chest, as it turns out. And Zoe might be confident enough to pursue a regular guy who's not giving her much encouragement, but she's definitely not confident enough to pursue a celebrity in those circumstances.

So yes, Zoe considered the possibility of her and James together, but never seriously enough to do something about it. (Although she's also never stopped noticing the things about him that had caught her interest in the first place.)

By the time he decided to do something about his feelings for her, she was already dating Malik, and wanted to see it through, even if her heart did do a traitorous little leap when he said he wanted to go to a concert with her (when he said all that stuff about having a family to watch TV with, and she'd never realized he was interested, and she'd never realized that he wanted to settle down with someone—with _her_ , maybe—and she'd never realized just how lonely he is, and she was happy with Malik then, she really was, but just for a split second she'd wanted _so much_ to—)

And life went on, and she tried to forget that split second, and he tried to forget his heartache with the help of a gaggle of supermodels on yachts, and then with the help of Nina the nurse, and then Zoe saw the two of them dancing together at prom, and she had another split second . . .

But then he gave Louis Keating the PAI-120B, and nearly ruined everything for everyone. And she remembered that while the arrogant, smartest-person-in-the-room James isn't the only aspect of his character, it is one aspect of his character. And she stopped obsessing over split seconds, and she moved on, and now she's focusing instead on being James' friend, like they were at the very beginning . . .

But no matter how she tries, all that weekend after the taco outing, all the week that follows it, she can't forget the look on his face as he said "I'm sorry."

She suspects that he's not sorry, not a bit. And she's trying to decide how she feels about that.

. . . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

o.o.o

"What was that look for?" Zoe chuckles, seeing Dr. Channarayapatra roll her eyes as she hangs up her cell phone.

Her friend sighs. "A hospital in LA keeps trying to recruit me. Won't take no for an answer."

"Which hospital?" Malik asks. He and Zoe are back on good enough terms now to hang out at work without too much awkwardness.

"Prew Memorial."

Zoe blinks in surprise. "That's . . . a really good hospital. Why wouldn't you take the job? I mean, not that I want you to leave, but . . ."

Dr. Channarayapatra seems surprised by the question. " _This_ is a really good hospital," she points out.

Scott, standing nearby, responds before Zoe can; his answer, as always, is straightforward but kindly delivered. "But rankings-wise, we've slipped well below Prew Memorial."

"We are in a rough patch," Dr. Channarayapatra. "But even with the extra scrutiny right now, and with James gone, this is an amazing place! I mean, look!" She gestures vaguely at the building around them.

Obediently Zoe looks around, taking in the wide hallways, the clean lines of glass and steel.

"We have cutting-edge facilities, we have some of the most brilliant doctors I've ever met, we have technology beyond most people's wildest dreams . . . we have Angie," Dr. Channarayapatra laughs. "We're in a rough patch, but I still believe this can be the place James dreamed of. We've just had a setback."

"You're very optimistic today," Scott observes.

"Georgia Ray's new single just came out," Dr. Channarayapatra admits, looking a little embarrassed but mostly pleased. "She e-mailed me personally to tell me about it. Said it was inspired by her experience here and a conversation we had. So I'm feeling a bit pleased with myself at the moment."

Zoe laughs. "I'll have to check that one out."

"I have an idea," Dr. Channarayapatra declares. "We're going to have a listening party. Today. We'll all take a break at 3, as many staff as we can get."

"A party on work time?" Malik asks, but he's grinning.

"To be fair," Zoe points out, "we've had concerts and ballet performances on work time as well."

"Come on," Dr. Channarayapatra pleads, "back me up here. Let's work on making this a fun place to work again."

It's very similar to what Zoe said to Angie a few weeks ago, so she smiles. "I'll spread the word."

And so she finds herself in the break area at 3 with some thirty doctors, nurses, technicians and clerks. Dr. Channarayapatra has rustled up some pretzels and punch—maybe James' party slush fund is still kicking around somewhere—and everyone's standing around talking and eating. Her friend was right: it's like how the hospital used to be. Fun.

"This song was inspired by Georgia Ray's medical crisis, and her wonderful experience at our hospital," Dr. Channarayapatra announces to the crowd. "So for those of you who haven't heard it yet, you should! You helped inspire it."

She hits play and they all settle in to listen. Zoe finds a spot on a couch, and Angie immediately sits next to her and lays her head on her shoulder. Malik and Scott sit on Zoe’s other side, and she sees Scott shoot Angie a small smile, which she returns; whatever happened between them, things are better, even if they're not quite fixed.

Georgia Ray's voice comes on, and it's not perfectly what it used to be, but it's close. It's really, really close, and Zoe smiles up at Dr. Channarayapatra, who leans against the arm of the couch, hoping she can hear the words that Zoe's not saying: _She's only singing like that because of you, and that's amazing. You're amazing._ And maybe her fellow doctor does get it, because she smiles back.

The song's beautiful, it's perfect, and Zoe knows it's going on her feel-good playlist. It seems to be casting its spell on everyone, as thirty people listen quietly for the whole four minutes of the song; when it's over, there is thunderous applause

Dr. Wallace has apparently been here the whole time, because he wanders up to their couch while the conversations in the room resume.

"That was a beautiful song," he observes. "And only possible because of you, Dr. Channarayapatra."

She smiles. "Thank you, Dr. Wallace."

He looks around a moment, at the happy staff mingling and chatting, then at the occupants of the couch. "This was good," he says. "We need more events to remind us that we're a team, and that together we can do extraordinary things." He looks at his doctors. "I'm proud of you. I don't think I say that enough. I'm proud of all of you."

Behind him, Jorge the nurse runs up and hits play again. "I want to hear it again!" he exclaims, and several people cheer as the opening notes play.

Zoe listens to the opening lines, words that wouldn't be possible without Bunker Hill. She looks around at her team, sees Dr. Wallace's benevolent face, feels the weight of Angie's head on her shoulder, thinks of the lives being saved at that very moment in other parts of the hospital. Then she looks at Dr. Channarayapatra.

"You're right," she says. "You couldn't give this up for Prew Memorial."

Dr. Channarayapatra just smiles.

o.o.o

 _Zoe: I was almost late for work today. They shut down a couple roads downtown for a festival and traffic was terrible with all the people trying to detour._

 _James: rough, what festival?_

 _Zoe: Himalaya Fest, I think._

 _James: WHAT_

 _James: that sounds amazing_

 _James: do you want to go_

 _James: i want to go_

It turns out that the awkward ending to the taco outing hasn't put a damper on James and Zoe's new texting relationship; he'd texted her on her way to the hospital to tell her she'd left her sunglasses on her seat, and they just jumped right back into their old habits. Clearly James doesn't know how obvious he'd been about his feelings about Zoe and Malik's breakup . . . or he does know, and doesn't care.

Or did she misread the situation and his reaction to the breakup? That's entirely possible. It's been five months since he asked her out; how likely is it, really, that he's still pining for her? (She genuinely doesn't know. Sometimes James seems the sort to flit from girl to girl, dropping each as soon as she stops holding his attention. And sometimes he seems the sort that would dedicate himself entirely to one girl for the rest of eternity.)

 _James: internet says its all weekend_

 _James: we could go saturday? i could pick you up?_

Spending the day together, just the two of them—under different circumstances, this would look like a date. And Zoe considers for a long time before she texts back:

 _Zoe: It’d have to be after 3, but I’d be in. It sounds fun._

Because it does sound fun, and it has been a while since she’s done anything like this, and it’d be nice to get involved with her community.

That’s all.

And really, even if this does resemble a date . . . would that be the end of the world?

 _James: awesome we can walk around and then get dinner there_

 _James: i hope they have butter tea_

So at 3:00 on Saturday James knocks on her door, in jeans and a jacket over a Beta Band t-shirt. (For her part, she spent a half-hour putting together an outfit carefully chosen to look like she put no thought into it whatsoever.) If it’s occurred to him how date-like this is, he doesn’t do anything to show it, precisely, although she does fancy she detects an undercurrent of awkwardness (well, more awkwardness than usual_ in the way he talks to her as she grabs her bag and locks her door and as they walk to the festival.

The festival is held in a park and adjoining streets not far from her apartment, and it looks just like every festival and street fair she ever attended as a kid, only with more prayer flags. There’s a stage area where an elderly gentleman is playing a wooden flute; behind it she can see what appears to be a dance group getting ready to go on next. Rows of vendors and food carts fill the park, and a lot of it appears to be related to the Himalayas but a lot of it is the usual festival fare: homemade jewelry, local artists, funnel cakes.

Zoe thinks it’s all very fun, but James is like a kid in a candy store, declaring his fervent desire to see everything. She watches him thoughtfully as he drags her to the first booth to examine the watches there, and finally voices the question on her mind.

There’s a bit of embarrassment behind his smile. “No, this is my first street fair,” he admits.

Zoe thinks of her own parents dragging her to Rhubarb Days every summer to eat churros and ride rickety old carnival rides, and she wonders, not for the first time, just what his childhood was like. “You’re right, then,” she says. “We’ll have to see everything here.”

She can’t remember the last time she saw him smile that big.

They wander the booths for hours, looking at every stall, and, in James’ case, buying far too many knickknacks. The conversation flows far more easily than it did the last time they hung out, partly because the throngs of people and shops give them lots of topics to discuss, and partly because James, having traveled extensively in India and Nepal and Tibet, has a lot to say about the prayer flags and the thangkas and the momo stands they pass.

She learns that he considers himself “philosophically Buddhist”—she’d always basically known that about him but never known the phrase he used to describe it—but very open to elements from many different religions and philosophies. He discovered Buddhism in college; he likes the teaching that clinging to the impermanent and ultimately unsatisfying things of this world leads to suffering, and he likes meditation as a way to clear his mind and sharpen his focus.

Brockett responds by telling him about growing up Catholic, and how she still likes to to go to Mass on Christmas Eve, which prompts James to inform her that he’s always wanted to go to a Midnight Mass. She feels like she should respond by inviting him to come with her some time, but uncertainty stills her tongue; who knows if they’ll still be hanging out next Christmas?

So instead she says “You definitely should go sometime,” and from the way he looks at her after that, she thinks he’d kind of been hoping she’d invite him to come with her. And now she feels bad.

They spend some time watching various dance and musical groups on the stage, and by then it’s time for dinner. Zoe’s not super adventurous when it comes to new foods, and if it were up to her she’d get herself a burger or something, but James won’t hear of it.

“We’re at the Himalayan Festival,” he says, in a tone that says he thinks what he’s saying is obvious. “We have to get Himalayan food.”

So he drags her to a  couple different carts and orders a whole pile of food for the both of them to share: momos and curry and yogurt and lentil soup over rice. It’s not until they’ve seated themselves at a picnic table near the stage that she remembers what Angie said to her in the fall: “If food is consumed, it’s a date.” And when you add to that the fact that James paid for her meal . . .

She hesitates, wondering if any of this has occurred to James, and she can see in his face that he’s noticed her hesitation, and worried that she doesn’t like the food. “I’m sorry, if you preferred something else—”

“No,” she assures him quickly, “it’s fine. I like Indian food, and this looks similar, right?”

“Yeah, kind of,” he agrees cheerfully, and digs in.

And she tells herself to stop overthinking things and helps herself to a momo.

It’s all actually pretty good, although she can’t bring herself to drink the butter tea, which James is savoring like it’s an expensive wine. “I stayed with this family outside Shigatse,” he explains. “And my hostess, the sweetest lady, would make this for me every morning—”

He suddenly falls silent, and from the way his eyes widen and he starts to grin, she’s pretty sure he’s caught sight of someone he recognizes. Zoe looks behind herself to see an older man, smiling as he approaches. The two men greet each other warmly, then James makes introductions. The man turns out to be Sam, an old friend of his, who runs a weekly meditation class that James sometimes attends at a local Buddhist center.

Sam responds very kindly to being introduced to Zoe, then turns to James, concern in his eyes. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?” he says, in a tone that says he’s not just asking out of habit or politeness.

James hesitates. “Better,” he says, after a moment. The pair talk a bit longer, and then the man leaves again.

Zoe’s still thinking about that “Better,” which indicates things used to be worse. “Have you been unwell?” she asks.

James looks surprised. “Uh, no. That was just—” He hesitates, then admits, “I went through a rough patch after . . . everything at Bunker Hill. I went to Sam’s class pretty faithfully for a while. He helped me through it.”

“Oh,” she says, surprised.

“What?”

“I just . . . I hadn’t realized that you had a—a hard time after you left Bunker Hill.”

He gives her a little half grin that’s more rueful than happy. “You thought maybe I was really happy about it?”

“I don’t know,” she says defensively. “You certainly acted fine when you left.”

He shrugs, his gaze fixed on the curry that he’s currently pushing around the bowl with his spoon. “I didn’t want to—make everyone uncomfortable.” He hesitates. “And I didn’t want people to see me upset. That’s my pride speaking, I guess.”

Zoe’s silent, thinking back to the day he bid them all goodbye, ending their relationships with a simple handshake and “Thank you for all you’ve done.” She remembers the flash of anger or hurt or sadness or all three that had hit her in the chest as he gave her his most charming James Bell smile and walked out of the hospital he’d just nearly ruined.

As though he can read her mind, James asks hesitantly, “Were you angry at me?”

She shrugs. “It was an upsetting time for everyone,” she hedges.

“That’s not what I asked.” His gaze is sincere and fervent.

So she admits, “Yeah, for a while. I couldn’t believe you’d endanger the hospital that way, just to help one patient. And it bothered me that you didn’t even seem sorry when you left.”

He nods slowly, looking deep in thought, then asks hesitantly, “How is Louis?”

She doesn’t say anything, but her expression must tell him enough because his lips tighten into a thin white line for a moment. “That’s what I figured.”

This is a rare opportunity; James seems unusually willing to talk about it all. So she voices the question that has been on her mind since she learned the FDA was investigating James. “Why’d you do it?”

He looks down at the table silently for a long few moments, and she thinks maybe he isn’t going to answer. But then he looks up at her. “Because I knew I couldn’t live with myself, knowing that Louis was dying while I stood by with the cure in my hand and did nothing.”

She blinks in surprise. “But you have to have known that when the FDA found out, they’d make you stop. And that all you’d have done by giving him the drug was delay the inevitable.”

He shrugs. “At first I hoped they wouldn’t find out,” he admits. “And then when Julianna found out, I guess I hoped that she’d see how well the drug works and give us a chance. But even if neither of those things happened . . .” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to have to live the rest of my life haunted by the thought that I’d let Louis die. I jeopardized the hospital for that. Does that make me selfish?”

“Maybe a little,” she admits, which feels rude but he seems like he genuinely wants honesty here, so . . . “I mean, I sympathize, but do you think I’m not haunted by decisions I’ve made, and patients I've lost? You think Dr. Wallace and Malik and everyone else at Bunker Hill don't have regrets? Regrets come with the job. And you live with them, and learn to make the hard calls; you don't break the law to ease your own conscience." She hesitates, then smiles a little. "Well, I guess if you're Dr. Wallace you do."

He accepts her firm words with a submissive nod of his head. "I've been thinking a lot since I left Bunker Hill, and I came to the conclusion that . . . I can learn a lot about medicine by reading. But there are certain things about being a doctor that come from experience, and from talking to more experienced people, which I never got. And being able to 'make the hard calls,' like you said, is one of them."

To her surprise, she feels a smile tugging at her lips. "So you're admitting that being a tech guru doesn't automatically make you a medical genius?"

He gives her a smile, rueful and tiny, and then his expression dims again. "You said earlier that I didn't even seem sorry when I left. I was sorry to leave, and sorry to have caused you guys problems, but I thought it through and weighed all the possible outcomes, and decided the hospital staff would most likely be all right, one way or another. But as for what I did . . . I wasn't sorry at all. I'm still not sorry. And the FDA can go hang."

She sighs a little, but she's not really upset; that attitude is kind of what she expected. "I'm glad you didn't tell the FDA that," she says drily. "You might have gotten in a lot more trouble."

"I do get why those regulations exist," he says, his food now completely forgotten and his hands beginning to gesture wildly as he warms up to his topic. "I do. You don't want to create a drug that's supposed to cure pinkeye but instead causes paralysis. But Louis Keating—" He breaks off and his mouth tightens into a white line for a moment. "He's dying, Brockett. The PAI-120B might have hurt him, or it might have cured him. But doing nothing will kill him, for sure. Why not give the drug a chance? By trying to make sure he doesn't get hurt by any side effects, the FDA has made sure he'll be dead by autumn—"

He cuts off suddenly and looks up, blinking rapidly, and Zoe is surprised to see the glitter of tears in his eyes. The response she'd been forming, the one about "The FDA has good reasons for what they do," dies on her tongue, and she simply watches James get himself back under control. When he tilts his head back down to meet her eyes—she can see a bit of embarrassment behind his tight smile—she agrees simply, "It sucks."

He nods a few times. "It sucks."

They sit silently a moment. "Sorry," says James, quietly. "About my outburst just now, and since I never said it to you back in February, I'm sorry I endangered your job. You're a great doctor, and I'm sorry I almost screwed that up for you. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you that at the time."

James doesn't do apologies very often—not his style, he'd told her once. So maybe that explains the warmth she feels growing in her chest. And maybe that's what prompts her to reach across the table and take one of his hands in hers. "Thank you, James."

With uncertainty written across his face, he glances down at their joined hands, then back up at her, and she suddenly feels very self-conscious. Time to end this conversation, she decides. The food is cold, and she's pretty full anyway, so she nods toward the stage where a group of teenagers are dancing. "You want to go check this out?"

He hesitates, then gives her a smile.

An hour later they're walking back to her apartment, and she can't stop smiling. Watching the performers helped them move past their somber conversation, and the last half-hour of being at the festival was fun: they ate churros and James ended up impressing a bunch of kids with his juggling skills (long story). And now they're laughing together as they walk home in the deepening twilight, and the air smells like citrus, and there's a warm wind scattering the stars around, and she has one of those moments where she realizes that she's perfectly happy.

"It's definitely _Raiders_ for me," Zoe says. "Classic."

James agrees. "So much of what people think of when they think of Indy comes from that movie: running from the boulder, and the snakes, and the Nazi face-melting scene . . . Plus Marion was the best love interest. By far."

"Not a fan of hot blonde Nazis?"

James laughs aloud, and Zoe smiles, her hands shoved in her pockets. "Marion's my favorite too," she says.

They reach her building then, and James follows her into the stairwell without even a hesitation, the many bags he got with his purchases at the festival swinging from his arm. "Thanks for coming with me today," he says. "This was . . . perfect, for my first time at a street fair."

"I'm glad you gave me a reason to go," she admits. "I've been sort of a hermit since I moved in here. It was nice to get out and see my town."

He's silent until they reach her floor. "And I'm sorry about . . . over dinner."

"Don't be," she says. "If anything, I should be apologizing, for prying."

"No, I'm glad you did," he says. "I should have told you a long time ago that I'm sorry."

She glances up at him, at his face in profile, and can't help smiling. "Thank you."

"So . . . are you still mad at me?"

Zoe considers this as they reach her door and she fumbles through her purse for her keys. The truth is that most of the anger had already faded before tonight, and now, hearing his reasoning, seeing how affected he is by what's happening to Louis . . . "No," she says. "I don't think I'm mad anymore. But, you know, in the future, try to avoid giving unapproved drugs to anyone."

"Will do," he agrees.

She unlocks the door. "Well, thanks," she says. "And thanks for dinner." Saying that reminds her, once again, of what Angie once said, that consuming food makes it a date. And that makes her aware that this is basically the doorstep scene. Suddenly she feels a little on edge, and her anxiety makes her fumble and drop her keys. James bends to pick them up before she can even move, and when he straightens again, he's closer to her than before. They both notice it at the same time, and quickly lean away from each other.

James seems to be looking for words, one of his hands worrying the handles of the plastic bags hanging from his arm. He seems a little nervous, and she wonders what he wants to say. She wonders what she wants him to say.

What he ends up choosing is, "This was great. So I guess I'll see you . . . soon, I hope."

That, as it turns out, is not what she wanted him to say.

"Yeah," she says, awkwardly. "Definitely."

"Okay, bye," he says, and walks away, and she's left standing quietly at her door.

She's not sulking, she's not. It's just . . . she'd kind of expected something a little more. More in his goodbye, maybe even a hug. Because friends hug, right? That's normal. But he just walked away.

She goes inside, shaking her head at herself. She just got kind of weird there at the end because it did look so much like a date, so she subconsciously expected more from the doorstep scene. That's all.

But if that's all, that doesn't explain the sudden wild hope that rises up in her when there's suddenly a knock at the door, just a few moments after she closed it, or the sudden racing of her heart when she looks through the peephole and sees it's James.

"Okay, Brockett," he says when she opens the door, before she can say anything. He's visibly anxious, and talking about a mile a minute. "I might be about to ruin everything, which I don't want, because it's so nice to be friends with you again, but then sometimes I just can't—I've tried to ignore it, but I just can't—and it's totally okay if you say no—"

He breaks off to stare helplessly at her door frame, his mouth moving as though looking for words.

"James?" she prompts gently.

He looks back at her. "Would you be willing to go on a date with me?" he asks, all in a rush.

She stares, surprised, and then half of her brain starts making a pros and cons list while the other half acts instinctively. "Yes," she blurts out, and she's not sure who's more surprised at her answer, her or James.

He stares at her a long moment, then says in tones of deep relief, "Oh! Good!" And it occurs to her that he really didn't expect her to say yes. "Umm, we'll—I'll text you? We'll make plans over text? Next week some time?"

"Sounds good," she says, and suddenly his jittery surprise makes her smile.

"Okay, good night!" he says, and walks off down the hallway with a grin, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Zoe shuts the door, leans her back against it, and smiles.

o.o.o

"You're going on a date with James?" Angie's expression is priceless. "Umm, okay, I officially ship this so hard."

"Keep it down," Zoe hisses, looking around the lab.

"No one's listening," Angie assures her. "And even if someone was, no one cares."

Zoe shrugs uncomfortably. "It's just—with Nina—"

"Nothing ever happened with James and Nina," Angie says confidently. "I have ways of finding these things out. Anyway, James wouldn't have asked you out if there were something going on between him and her."

"Good point," Zoe concedes.

"So when is it? Where are you going?"

"Wednesday night," says Zoe. "We're going to Solstice for dinner."

"Solstice?" Angie repeats, her eyes widening. "That's, like a super nice restaurant."

"Yeah, I think I've heard that. James is friends with the chef."

"No, Zoe, you're not hearing me. That's, like, a _super_ nice restaurant. That's, like, you-might-run-into-George-Clooney nice. You know. If he were in the area."

Zoe blinks in surprise.

"What are you going to wear?" Angie demands.

Zoe thinks through the clothes hanging in her closet, then grimaces. "What am I going to wear?" she repeats.

"Sounds to me like a shopping trip," Angie grins. "Tonight?"

Zoe agrees, and Angie glances back to her computer monitor and hits a few keys—then hesitates, then turns back to Zoe. "James must really like you," she says. "That's an expensive restaurant."

Zoe has been wondering the same thing. "So?" she asks a little defensively.

"So nothing," says Angie. "You don't owe him anything just because he paid for a pricey restaurant. But whatever you decide . . . he's not good at this. The dating stuff, the real normal-person dating stuff. So, you know, just be nice to him. Let him down easy if you are going to let him down."

"I'm always nice," objects Zoe. "But I'll keep that in mind."

Angie's quiet a moment, then a mischievous grin snakes across her face. "So do you like him?"

The question catches her off-guard, although it shouldn't, given how well she knows Angie. "I—I mean, maybe—he's very—well, he's James, isn't he?"

All the while Angie's smile grows bigger and bigger. "Oh, man," she says. "I ship this so hard."

o.o.o

When James picks her up at her place Wednesday, and she sees the sharp suit he's wearing, she's glad she let Angie pick out this fabulous dress. (And when she sees the admiration in his eyes that he can't quite hide—well, she's extra glad she went for this dress. Even if it does make it just a smidgen hard to breathe.)

She follows him down to his car—it's a Tesla, of course, because it's James and what else would he drive?—and they start their drive across town. She's waiting for the conversation to be as awkward as it was when they got tacos together; after all, they're finally officially on a date, with their messy history and the fact that James is sort of terrible at this stuff all hanging over their heads. But it turns out it's actually fine. James is clearly a little tense, a little nervous (so is she, to be honest), but they both seem to relax the more they talk. Maybe they got all the awkwardness out of the way on their previous outings. That's a hopeful thought.

Her nervousness returns when they reach the restaurant, though. "I don't know if I've ever been somewhere this nice," Zoe admits. "I'm kind of worried I'm going to make an idiot of myself somehow."

James laughs. "I know the feeling. But I promise, the food here is so good that it makes up for all the pressure."

They leave the car with the valet and James comes around to escort her inside. Without thinking, she takes his arm, and even from his side she can see the pleased little smile that crosses his face. The host inside recognizes James and greets him with a "Good evening, Mr. Bell!" before James can even say anything.

"I come here a lot," James admits to her quietly as the host leads them to their table. "It's really good food."

After Angie's repeated claims that this was a "super nice restaurant," Zoe googled it so she'd know what she's getting into, so she's already seen photos of the inside, of the sleek dark wood tables and the huge windows and the hanging lights giving everything a cozy glow. But that couldn't prepare her for the way it feels to be in there, to walk past beautiful people with expensive jewelry sipping rare wines. She doesn't see George Clooney, but she recognizes a senator and some tech mogul she's seen on the news, and although hardly anyone even glances in her direction as she moves through the tables, she suddenly feels shabby and insignificant.

It must show on her face a little, because after their waiter has introduced himself, recommended the chef's special, then left to give them time to peruse the menu, James leans forward. "You okay?"

She shrugs. "Just feeling a little out of place," she admits. "And a little . . . intimidated."

"Because a few of these people are famous?" He makes a scoffing noise. "You are one of the most brilliant doctors I've ever met. You save lives on a daily basis. Everyone here should be intimidated by you, not the other way around."

She stares at him a moment, and then finds herself laughing, the tension she's felt since getting out of the car shattering. "Thank you, James," she says. "I will try to keep that in mind."

Things are better after that; she ignores the fact that she's pretty sure she's seen the big guy sitting just two tables over on a box of Wheaties, and the fact that she doesn't recognize half of what's on the menu, and just focuses on James. That grounds her; that keeps her laughing and confident, because the way he looks at her makes her feel like the most important person in the room. They swap stories about best and worst meals they've ever had, and he talks about the startup he's investing in, and she tells him stories about her childhood. The roast duck she ordered is, as it turns out, incredibly delicious, and the wine James chose is definitely the nicest she's ever had—although she drinks sparingly, wanting to keep a clear head tonight. James, she notices, does the same.

It's a good first date, all in all, but there's something missing, and after a lot of thought she decides what it is: they are dressed to the nines, sitting across from each other in slightly uncomfortable chairs, speaking in hushed voices to match the ambiance of the restaurant. It's all very standard date stuff, but it doesn't feel super personal. She's grateful for James paying for such a nice dinner, she really is, but it'd be nice to spend some time with him in a less formal environment. And that's why she says what she does.

It starts when she's recounting how Angie has been bugging her since they met about how she needs to watch _30 Rock,_ but she doesn't have Netflix.

"I know," James agreed, "I just kind of missed that one while it was on the air, and now . . ." He shrugs. "But I know people who quote it all the time, and I keep thinking I need to give it a try."

"Well, we should watch it," Zoe says without thinking.

James raises his eyebrows.

"Seriously, we should," she says, warming to her subject now that she's had a moment to process her statement and decide it's a good idea. "In fact . . . what about tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"What if, when we're done with dinner, we grab some ice cream and watch a couple episodes? You have Netflix, right?" Because hey, who doesn't like Tina Fey? And then maybe Angie will stop bugging her. And then also it might be nice to spend some times with James tonight outside this restaurant.

A smile is spreading slowly across James' face, bright and hopeful and maybe a little bit shy? "That sounds amazing," he says, and she smiles too.

So when their meal is done and the valet has fetched the car, they drive to Vons, chuckling together in the parking lot at the incongruity of climbing out of a Tesla in such formal evening wear to go into grocery store and buy ice cream. There's no question at all as to the flavor—they learned ages ago that they both love rocky road—and the teenager at the cash register stares at them but says nothing.

"Did you see her face?" James laughs as they get back in the car. "I feel like she was barely keeping herself from saying something about our clothes."

Zoe chuckles. "I hate to disagree, but she was staring straight at you. I think she recognized you."

James makes a face, somewhere between a grimace and an embarrassed smile. "So . . ." he says as he starts the car, then hesitates. "My house?"

She knows why he's hesitant. Going to his place at the end of a date—on paper, it sounds like a much bigger deal than it actually is right now. And for a moment, it catches her off-guard too. They're just going to hang out; she has no intention of anything more than that happening. But even going to hang out kind of feels like a big deal; they're both saying they've had such a good time that they don't want the evening to end. This date, this seed that could sprout into a relationship—suddenly it feels like it has potential, like it really could be going somewhere. And that scares her a little, after so many months spent denying the possibility of something happening between her and James.

But on the other hand, when she looks at James in the driver's seat, with the lampposts outside casting golden light across his face, she can't keep herself from smiling. So: "Yeah, you've got Netflix, right? And probably a much bigger TV than me."

His smile warms, and he backs out of the parking space.

o.o.o

James lives on the top of a hill in the most stunning neighborhood she's ever seen. It's actually less than ten minutes from her place, but it might as well be a different planet, and as the car climbs silently past behemoth mansions lurking behind locked gates, Zoe has to remind herself not to stare. And James' house has pride of place on the very top of the hill.

They have to stop while James leans out the car window and types a four-digit code into the box next to the heavy steel gate. "I know where I'm coming if I ever need to hide from something," Zoe jokes.

He glances over at her and grins. "It's not actually that secure," he says. "I mean, the gate is, but I think the code is probably too easy to guess if you know me well."

She'll take that challenge. "Birth year," she guesses.

He shakes his head.

"Birth date and month. Mother's birth year? The year you founded Bunker Hill?"

"It's not a year," he says.

What other four-digit code would be obvious to someone who knows James well? "I give up."

He looks surprised. "6502," he says, in a tone that says he thinks this should be obvious. "The processor that kicked off the personal computing revolution."

"Of course!" she says theatrically. "The 6502! How could I have missed that?"

He laughs and they pull into the garage.

The house is precisely what she would have thought James would like: stunning, very modern, everything white and glass and steel but saved from a boring academic perfection by the personal touches all around, like the photo of the Bunker Hill team at that park James sponsored last fall—a photo that makes James blush and Zoe smile. He gives her a quick tour of the ground floor, saving the view out the back for last—and as soon as she sees it, she knows why. From her spot by the pool she can see a blanket of city lights, stretching into the distance, mirrored by the blanket of stars above. It's breathtaking, and she just stands there and stares while James goes to the kitchen to fetch bowls and spoons for the ice cream.

"This suit's actually kind of uncomfortable," he says when she wanders back inside. "I'm going to change. You want anything? I think I have sweatpants that you could, you know. Tighten a lot."

"That'd be great, actually," she says. "I can't quite breathe in this dress."

Fifteen minutes later they are ensconced on his couch, with bowls of rocky road in their laps and with the Netflix menu on the screen in front of them. They're now both dressed in sweatpants and t-shirts that, in her case, hang far too loosely but are pretty comfortable, and it's such a cozy, domestic scene that she feels like she should probably find this a bit alarming but she just . . . doesn't.

"After how much Angie has talked about this show, it's going to have to work pretty hard to live up to my expectations," Zoe says.

"But hey," says James, "who doesn't love Tina Fey?"

"Nobody," Zoe agrees, and settles back against the couch. James takes the hint and starts the first episode.

And okay, Angie was right, it's pretty funny. But the truth is she's just a little distracted by James sitting so close to her—not close enough that they're touching, but close enough that she feels the couch move a little when he laughs. And doing this, watching TV on his couch with a bowl of ice cream . . . it's nice, but it's more than that. It feels . . . obvious? Is that what the word she's trying to think of? She means, it feels comfortable, and familiar, and right. It makes her ask herself, "Why have we never done this before?" It feels like it's the obvious outcome of their evening, like they were always going to end up here.

There's another thing that feels obvious to her, and in response to that feeling, she shifts closer to James until their arms are brushing. He shoots her a quick smile, and she hopes he'll make his own move—hold her hand or something? She just . . . she kind of wants him to do that.

But apparently he's a slow mover, because it takes several minutes before he finally shifts, carefully lifting his arm to lay it along the back of the couch behind her. It's not the most suavely executed or original move she's ever seen, but what can she say? She's a fan of the classics. So she smiles and shifts a little closer.

They watch the second episode as well, and then they take a break to stretch.

"I don't know about you," says James, getting up to get some more ice cream, "but I thought that was great."

Zoe agrees. "Angie's going to be insufferable when I tell her she was right."

"Yes she is," James chuckles.

It's nearly ten o'clock now, and really Zoe should get home and go to bed; she's got to get up early for work tomorrow. But . . . she doesn't want to. She wants to stay here with James. She wants to watch another episode. She wants to know if, given enough time, he'll do more than put his arm around her shoulders (well, near them, anyway). Because . . . she thinks she'd be okay with that.

So when he returns from the kitchen and sits back down, she starts talking before he can say anything to signal the date is wrapping up. "This is an incredible TV," she says. "Seriously, how big is it?"

"Seventy inches," he says. "4K resolution."

"Wow," she says, turning so she's sitting sideways cross-legged on the couch, facing James. "I think my TV's about the size of this TV's remote control." James chuckles and she adds, "I don't actually watch much. Not a lot of free time."

"I don't watch much either," James admits, turning so he's facing her.

"Then what'd you buy this huge TV for?"

"I thought it'd be nice if I ever had people over."

"And do you?" she asks. "Have people over?"

He shrugs and gives her that embarrassed grin of his. "I do right now."

She chuckles and leans against the back of the couch. "I hope this has made the purchase worth it, then."

"It has," he blurts out quickly, then immediately looks down, laughing and a little embarrassed. But then he looks back up into her eyes—she gets the distinct feeling he's forcing himself to be brave—and says, "Tonight has been perfect."

"Ice cream and TV?" she laughs. "You're easy to please."

He smiles back, but there's something in his eyes—a hint of something he's not saying.

"What is it?" she asks.

He hesitates.

"I'm very trustworthy," she informs him with a grin.

After another pause, he admits, not looking at her, "When I was a kid . . . my mom wasn't around much."

She remembers Angie having come to that conclusion last winter, after some Internet stalking.

"So when I was home alone, sometimes I'd go walk around the neighborhood, and look at all the houses and the families inside, and I would imagine that I was . . ."

The smiles fades from her face.

"Anyway," he goes on, "I'd see through the windows that a lot of times they'd be sitting together watching TV. Me and my mom never did that; we couldn't ever agree on a show. And I guess I just fell in love with that idea, of families enjoying a TV show together. So for me, just sitting around and watching TV with someone feels . . . really nice."

There's more to it than he's saying, she can tell. He wants a family he can watch TV with; he wants to be a part of a family that loves each other and spends time together. Into her mind comes the memory of the first time he asked her out, when he wanted to take her to a concert but she'd just started dating Malik. He'd gotten sidetracked in the middle of asking, and he'd started talking about families watching TV together. She thought he'd meant it as just a generic example of what's good about having people in your life, but maybe he was talking about this. Maybe he meant that in her he'd found something that he thought he could finally call "family." And she swallows hard.

But she's not scared, not anymore. Because James has just been very vulnerable with her, has shown her a side of him he doesn't show many people, and it makes her heart grow warm. Not because she pities him, but because it reminds her that James is not just the over-confident genius he lets the world see. There's a lot of sides to his personality, and she likes all those sides.

Actually, she just likes . . . him.

Oh, wow, she likes him. Okay, wow. Is she really finally doing this? Yes, she's doing it, she's admitting it: she, Zoe Brockett, has somewhere along the way developed a thing for James Bell. She should kiss him. Would that be too much too fast? Because she thinks she'd like to kiss him.

She's been quiet for too long, and he's still waiting for an answer, so she says, "I guess I see why you have Netflix."

He laughs at that, and when the laughter fades something in the air has changed. He falls silent, just looking at her face, and she can't help herself: her gaze darts down to his mouth, then back to his eyes. He saw that, she can tell from the way his posture subtly changes and the way he tucks his chin in a bit.

And okay, is he going to kiss her or what? Because it turns out she is really on-board for this idea.

He reaches out his right hand and carefully tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips brushing her cheek, and she fights the urge to sigh contentedly. The hand moves down a little, to rest on the curve of her neck. And that's when he freezes.

She waits for a moment, wondering what's going on, until he pulls his hand back to his side and she sees him flex it a few times. "I, uh, I need to use the bathroom, all right?" he says, and tears out of the room without waiting for a response.

And Zoe is left sitting baffled on his couch. Did that go more poorly than she'd thought? Or did he just genuinely have to, you know, use the bathroom?

She waits quietly and awkwardly until he returns. He looks very formal all of a sudden, in his expression and his bearing, and he's got his car keys. "You've got work in the morning," he says, "and I just remembered I have a meeting at 9. So we should probably call it a night."

Zoe blinks a few times. "Okay," she says slowly, and glances at her empty ice cream dish. "Should I—"

"I'll take care of it," he says. "Your dress is still upstairs."

She stares a minute. Then she walks past him and up to the spare bedroom where she changed and hung up her dress; she changes back into her own clothes and leaves his folded on the foot of the bed. Downstairs, he leads her back to the garage without saying much, and she can't help feeling like she is leaving the house in disgrace, for some reason.

Is it because she's the one who initiated everything tonight? she wonders as the car pulls silently into the quiet glow of a California night. She made the first move to get closer on the couch; she was the one eyeing his lips; it was her idea to come to his house in the first place. Was she moving too fast? Is he less interested than she thought?

Whatever it is, she can't find words to speak to James, because she has no idea if he's angry or upset or bored with her (or just genuinely worried about her making it to work on time). So they ride in silence all the way back to her apartment; James is barely even looking at her, and the only thing he does besides driving is turning on the radio, softly, to fill the dead air between them.

Plus, when they're at red lights, he keeps rubbing his right hand carefully with his left. That's odd.

When he pulls up in front of her apartment building, he is quiet a moment, staring out through the windshield, and she hears him take a deep, steadying breath. "Thank you for coming tonight, Zoe," he says.

"Thanks for dinner," she says automatically, the knee-jerk reaction that comes of having had a mother who always insisted on politeness. "I had a nice time."

"I did too," he says, tilting his face down to look at the steering wheel, which his hands are gripping tightly. "But . . ."

"But?" she prompts after a moment.

He won't look at her, and on the side of his face that she can see, there's a brief flash of something sorrowful. But then he smooths it out and gets his emotions under control. He's good at doing that.

"I don't think this was a good idea," he says. "On my part. I'm sorry to have wasted your time. And . . . I wish you all best."

She'd been expecting them to have to talk about whatever's been bothering him for the last ten minutes. But she didn't expect this.

"Oh," is what she manages to get out at first. And then, after another few moments of surprised gaping, "Okay." She hesitates, and she thinks of that moment on the couch when she'd just known that he was going to kiss her and that she was going to be glad about it. "Are you sure?" she asks.

He grows still, and then he nods. "I'm sure." He still hasn't looked at her since they left his house.

"Okay," she says helplessly. "Goodbye, then."

He nods, and, when it's clear he's not going to do anything else, she climbs out of the car.

He finally glances at her, quickly, through the window. And then he's driving away into the night, and she's left to stand on the sidewalk and watch him go and try to ignore the sting of tears that suddenly prick behind her eyelids.

o.o.o

"He did what?" Angie demands.

"Maybe I was being too forward?" Zoe shrugs.

But her friend is not convinced. "He likes you," she insists. "And sitting by him on a couch is not 'too forward.'"

"Ugh, I don't know." Zoe drops her head into her hands. "I thought it was going really well!" Then she sighs. "But clearly it wasn't."

Angie blinks at her a few times, then shakes her head. "I'll check social media," she announces.

"In case his most recent Facebook status is 'Went out with a girl last night but I decided I'm not that into her after all'?"

"He likes you," Angie insists again.

And Zoe sighs. "I thought so too. But I guess he changed his mind."

She's been feeling pretty low about it all day, and all last night, too; it's almost like she's going through a breakup, which is absurd because that was their first date. (But she'd been so sure, there for a few minutes on that couch last night, that this was the first of many dates. She looked at him, and she just _knew—_ And losing what she'd thought was going to turn into something is, it turns out, in some ways just as bad as losing something real.)

So who can blame her if she shuffles around the hospital with less of a spring in her step than usual? James ended things with her before they even started, and he hasn't texted her all day to explain like she'd hoped he might, and she can't for the life of her figure out what went wrong.

Because the more she thinks about it, the more she's sure she didn't misread his earlier interest in her. He initiated contact with her; he invited her to tacos and the Himalayan Festival; he turned around and came back to her apartment to trip over his words and ask her on a date. He paid for her dinner at the fanciest restaurant she's ever seen; he looked admiringly at her in that dress; he complimented her; he loved the idea of going to his place to watch TV together. She didn't misread the situation.

And yet, here she sits, having clearly done something to screw things up, because now he isn't even texting her, and she can't solve this riddle, and she doesn't know what to do. Maybe in a day or two she'll work up the courage to ask him what went wrong.

But in the meantime, there's nothing to do but get back to work. (And avoid Malik, because he'll notice she's feeling down, and if he asks she'll end up telling him the truth, and she doesn't want him to think that he was right and she had feelings for James all along. Even though it might be just a tiny bit true.)

Luckily the day is busy and she can escape into her work to avoid her thoughts for long stretches. It's so busy, in fact, that she doesn't have time to take her lunch until after 2. She's not much in the mood for company, so she goes to the top floor staff area, the one that's so far from the center of the hospital that no one ever goes there (except for her, when she needs a bit of space). She tucks herself in her favorite nook by the window and spreads her brown bag lunch across her lap, and she's halfway through her sandwich when she hears a voice behind her, walking into the staff room.

"It's me," says the voice, and she recognizes it: Dr. Wallace. She turns to say hello, and see who he's talking to, but there's a big support column near her—another reason she loves this spot, because the column provides a lot of privacy while she eats—and she can't even see him.

"You could have waited here for this, you know," he says. "You're banned from making any medical or administrative decisions for Bunker Hill, but you're still allowed to come see me."

It's James he's talking to, she realizes, with a return of that sinking feeling in her chest. It must be a phone call, based on what he's saying and the fact that she's not hearing James say anything.

There's a pause, and then: "Don't worry, James. The tests came back negative. The tremors in your hand are probably stress-related. Have you been stressed lately?" He chuckles. "Or have you been drinking that stuff with all the caffeine again?"

Far too late, Zoe realizes this is the sort of personal, doctor-patient phone call she really shouldn't be listening in on, and she starts trying to swallow her mouthful of sandwich and gather up her lunch from off her lap so she can get out of there, or at least make herself known to Dr. Wallace before he reveals any other personal facts about James.

But then he says something that freezes her in her tracks.

"Don't apologize," he says reassuringly. "Come to me any time you have concerns. Catching it early and beginning medical care right away are important with GSS."

And Zoe's heart drops to her shoes.

"Yes, the animal trials are going well. I think we'll have the data necessary to get FDA approval well before you—well, in plenty of time, let's say."

She should not be here, hearing this. But the damage is already done.

"All right, you look after yourself." The call must have ended then, because now he's moving again, toward the water cooler on the other side of the room—which means that suddenly he's in a spot to see Zoe, sitting by the window behind the column, with her lunch spread across her lap and entirely forgotten, staring up at him with suspiciously bright eyes.

"Brockett," he says, surprised.

She should apologize for accidentally eavesdropping, she knows. But instead she speaks in a small voice that she doesn't think she's heard herself use in a long time. "Does James have GSS?"

A frown crosses Dr. Wallace's face, only to be replaced with resignation. "This is a breach in doctor-patient confidentiality," he says admonishingly, then sighs. "But one I'm at fault for as well; I should have checked the room to see if I was actually alone."

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she says quickly. "I was just—"

"I know," sighs Dr. Wallace. "And I guess it's not like I have any room to talk; I only know because I started prying into old medical records."

There it is again, that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. "So he does have GSS? I mean, he will have it?"

"I've already said much more than I should," says Dr. Wallace.

But it's too late; Zoe's smart, and she's putting the pieces together as he speaks, that phone call still echoing loudly in her head. James isn't presenting any genuine symptoms, she guesses, but both he and Dr. Wallace think that someday he will. So he must have been tested once, and come back positive for the genetic markers. James . . . tested positive for GSS.

She stares unseeingly at the wall behind Dr. Wallace's head. "But the tremors he had you check out were a false alarm?" Tremors are one of the early symptoms, she knows.

"You know I can't discuss this," says Dr. Wallace.

Something occurs to her then, and her gaze snaps to meet her companion's. "Is that why he invited Louis Keating here? Is that why we've been working on a GSS drug?" Her brow furrows as realization dawns and her whole worldview shifts, just a little. "Is that why he started this hospital in the first place?"

Dr. Wallace doesn't speak, but his expression says enough.

She chuckles a little, staring at a spot in her lap. "And here I thought he was this great philanthropist," she says quietly. "Turns out he was just trying to save his own life."

"I thought the same thing when I started," says Dr. Wallace. "But then I saw him here, pulling 60-hour work weeks month after month—he didn't have to do that, if all he wanted was for Bunker Hill to develop the PAI-120B. GSS might be the reason he started this hospital, but I think it very quickly became much more than that for him."

She nods slowly.

"You'll keep this to yourself?" he asks. "James didn't want anyone to know."

She nods again.

He shakes his head. "And I'll be much more careful about checking the room before I have private conversations," he sighs. He nods his goodbye and walks away, but stops after a few steps. "You've been in contact with him lately, haven't you?" he says.

"We've been texting," she says woodenly. "And hanging out a little."

He's quiet a moment. "Today was a false alarm," he says. "But even so . . . I think James could use a friend right now." And with a small smile at her, he leaves.

Mechanically Zoe stands and throws the rest of her lunch away, then returns to work, her mind whirling. She's annoyed at James on some level, for luring her to this hospital on false pretenses and keeping this enormous secret from her, but she knows perfectly well that's an absurd thing to be mad about. She wouldn't tell anyone either, if she were in his shoes, and also Dr. Wallace is right: this hospital became incredibly meaningful to him. Making special shoes so a teenager could go to prom, flying in a pop star to make a patient's dream of attending a concert come true, spending hours sitting by an endless array of bedsides—none of that helped cure his GSS, and he did it all anyway, gladly, day after day.

But it'd be easier if she could stay mad, because it would have kept her from the thoughts that crowd in once the anger is gone: James will have GSS. James has the genetic markers for GSS. According to all the studies on the subject, there is a 100% chance that James will begin to show the symptoms of GSS in the next ten years.

And she does her best to keep from dwelling on those thoughts, to focus on her patients and her work, and she does a decently good job of it for about twenty minutes. But then she has a few minutes of downtime and, on her way to get a drink, passes Louis Keating's room. He's lying in there as he always does, a shell of the kind man she met when he first came to Bunker Hill, kept alive by a series of machines and medications. And as she hesitates briefly outside his door, there suddenly flashes into her mind a picture of James Bell in a hospital bed like this one, still and silent, his brilliant mind and huge heart trapped inescapably in a withering husk of a body—at least, until the machines can't keep him going any longer, and he slips away, and—oh wait, is she crying?

She runs to the nearest staff bathroom and locks the door behind her, leaning heavily against the wall as sobs shake her whole frame. Her chest and head ache with the effort of keeping her tears silent, but she can't let anyone overhear; they'd ask questions, and she promised she'd keep this secret. She stays there until the shaking slows down, and then she tries to pull herself together. She's still got two hours left on her shift, and she needs to go out there without tear-stained eyes. And then when the shift ends, she'll—she'll—

All at once she remembers that James rejected her last night, that after one of the best first dates she's ever had he abruptly told her it wasn't going to work out between them. That doesn't lessen the tragedy of his diagnosis, of course—she's not going to mourn and worry less just because he apparently lost interest at some point during their date—but it does complicate the half-formed idea she had of going to him after her shift's over and putting her arms around him and telling him she's here for him. Because she can do that as a friend, but romantically speaking, he's not interested, not anymore—

The realization hits her like a semi truck, and she stares, wide-eyed, at her teary-faced reflection in the mirror. Maybe James didn't lose interest at some point during their date last night. Maybe . . .

She forces herself to think through things logically as she washes the tears from her cheeks. Their date was going brilliantly last night, and James was into it, she knows he was. Then suddenly he ended not only the date but their relationship, and the only thing that appeared to have been out of the ordinary was the way he kept rubbing his right hand. Then this morning he came to Dr. Wallace to report hand tremors and have him check whether it was GSS. So maybe that sudden shift last night, when he nearly kissed her but then just hit the brakes on everything instead—maybe that wasn't something she did. Maybe tremors hit in that moment and he just panicked.

For the first time that day, she feels hope.

This occupies her mind so thoroughly for the next two hours that she ends up walking into the wrong patient's room not once but twice, after which she redoubles her efforts to focus. But every moment her mind isn't on a patient, it's on James. He must be terrified, with that diagnosis hanging over his head like a sword; he must have the list of early symptoms memorized and watch himself constantly, waiting for that tremor or that muscle weakness that marks the beginning of the end. No wonder he was so drawn to Louis Keating, so keen to try to help the man out of some combo of self-preservation and the kind of sympathy that comes with knowing all too well how the man must feel about his condition. No wonder he worked so hard on the PAI-120B, and pushed the FDA so hard to approve it, and risked everything to use it after the FDA said no.

And—perhaps?—no wonder he ended things last night. James doesn't like to admit to weakness. He had no problem asking for help for the sake of Bunker Hill's patients, but he's always struggled asking for help for himself (which she can sympathize with; when you're smart, when that's your whole identity, sometimes it can be nearly impossible to admit when you don't know things). So if he thought the tremors last night were the harbingers of GSS, it'd make sense he'd push her away, unwilling to admit weakness, unwilling to let her see him that way, unwilling to pull her into his troubles.

And . . . does she want to get pulled into his troubles? That's the question that makes her hesitate in the parking garage after her shift ends. Because the PAI-120B might help James live a long and healthy life . . . but it might not. It's one thing to find out someone you're already involved with has been diagnosed with a debilitating disease; in that case, she hopes she'd have the strength to stand by them, no matter what. But it's another thing altogether to choose to become involved with someone, knowing that they've already been diagnosed. That would require an amount of selflessness and love that she doesn't even know if she's capable of. She doesn't know if she's a good enough person for that.

She stands there by her car, turning this over and over in her mind, for ages. But then suddenly she thinks of James awkwardly putting his arm around her shoulders last night—so sweet, so uncertain. And she makes up her mind.

o.o.o

And so she finds herself driving up the hill to his house when her shift is over. This might be a terrible idea; he was pretty clear last night about them being over, and she's not even supposed to know about the GSS, and he might not want to see her. She might be wrong about his reasons for ending things, and he might be furious that she learned his secret. But she's willing to take that risk.

Not to mention, she has to see him, no matter what their romantic status is. Because to conceal from him that she now knows his secret feels deceitful, and because if even he isn't interested anymore—if his feelings for her disappeared in the same evening that she realized hers for him—she wants to be a friend to him. And not just because of the GSS. She and James have been through too much together for her to let him slip away again, and that thought brings her confidence as she pulls up to his house.

When she left Bunker Hill she decided not to call ahead, afraid that he'd hang up and not wanting to have to explain everything over the phone if he pressed for details. But as she pulls up to the house, it occurs to her that he might not even be home. Too late to do anything about it now, though.

At the locked gate she hesitates, casting her mind back to last night—she doesn't remember the code, but she remembers his explanation: the processor that kicked off the personal computing revolution. A quick Google search later, she's typing 6502 into the box and watching the gate open. The Tesla's parked in front of the garage, so, hoping that's a good sign, she parks, gathers her courage, and knocks on the front door.There's no answer, but as she stands there, she becomes aware of music playing faintly from somewhere nearby. It's got to be him—the nearest houses are too far away to be the source of the music—and she follows the sound around the edge of the house to the back patio. The music is coming softly from a pair of speakers, and on a bench next to the pool is James:  dressed in a very familiar blue suit, back to her, hunched forward with forearms resting on knees, staring out over the valley below. He must be really absorbed in his thoughts, to have not heard her car or her knock or her approach. She watches him silently a few moments. And then she steps forward.

"Hi James."

"Brockett!" James jumps about a mile, and as he looks back at her, amused reproach fills his expression for a moment . . . and then the surprise clears, and his face falls again. "What are you doing here?" he asks, cautious, wary.

"Can I sit?" she asks simply. She's been going over this conversation in her head the whole drive here, and she wants this first part to be calm, straightforward, and factual; sitting together seems a good first step. (And then his response to the first part will determine whether they even bother with the second part.)

"Sure," he says after a moment, and pretends he's not watching closely as she seats herself on a deck chair near him. Part of her wishes she'd taken the time to go home and change, maybe freshen up her makeup, because she feels a little wilted after her day at work. But she couldn't wait, not even that extra half-hour.

"So . . . what can I do for you?" he says awkwardly as she settles into her chair. He doesn't look annoyed that she's there, like a part of her feared he might; he just looks uncomfortable, and, deep down, just the tiniest bit intrigued. She hopes that's a good sign.

"I'm actually here to apologize."

"About last night?" he cuts in. "Brockett, you didn't do anything, I promise—"

"Thank you," she smiles, because that is actually a huge relief to hear. "But I'm not talking about last night. Earlier today . . ." She hesitates, then forces herself to speak. "I inadvertently eavesdropped on a phone call Dr. Wallace was having."

She can see the moment James understands, see the change in his expression—surprise and dismay and embarrassment. "Oh."

"We both felt terrible. And I didn't want to keep this a secret—to not let you know that I know. So I came to tell you. And to tell you, I'm here for you. Anything you need, just ask." She hesitates. " _Please_ ask. I mean it."

He drags his hand down his face and she recognizes the gesture, recognizes that he's trying to hold in his unhappiness. "Thank you," he says quietly.

They sit in silence a moment, then she adds, with a ghost of a smile. "It made a lot of things make more sense—Louis Keating, and the PAI-120B, and the FDA."

He smiles without mirth, not making eye contact with her. "So now you know my deep dark secret," he says. "The drug I risked the hospital for—it was all to save my own life." His lips tighten a moment. "And actually, I created the hospital to save my own life."

"I thought about that," she admits. "But by the end, you were working harder and longer than any doctor there. I think you came to genuinely love it, right?"

He finally looks at her, his eyes inexpressibly sad.

"And, I mean, I got into medicine because of my mom's death," she points out. "You're not the only one who was inspired by a personal tragedy. Yours was just . . . even more personal than mine."

"But then I threw it all away in the end," he sighs.

"Yeah, you did," she agrees. "But I understand your reasons, and I do sympathize. And even if you're not part of it anymore, you left a great hospital behind you. A hospital that saves lives every day."

That finally warms the mood enough that he smiles a little, and her heart does a little flip in her chest.

She hesitates. "And James . . . I think the PAI-120B has a real chance of working. But even if it doesn't, I'm here for you."

His smile softens, grows a little more fond, and she decides that yes, she's going for the second part of this conversation. Because that smile does things to her heart that she doesn't want to ignore. "That's not the only reason I came by, though."

He gives her a questioning look.

"I did want to talk about last night," she says, and she can see him stiffen. She's quiet a moment, then: "Did you end things because of the hand tremors? The ones you went to see Dr. Wallace about?"

He won't answer at first, but when she repeats the question, he admits, his gaze fixed on his shoes, "I know it turned out to be a false alarm, but it . . . it reminded me that I have no business starting a relationship with anyone right now. If the drug doesn't work . . . I can't ask anyone to be part of this." He looks up to meet her eyes. "I can't ask you to be part of this. You've seen what GSS does to people."

"Yeah, I have," she agrees. "So I know perfectly well what I'm getting into. But I told you, James, I'm here for you—"

"See, this is why I didn't want anyone to know!" he bursts out, standing from his bench to pace. "I didn't want anyone treating me differently, or pitying me. And I didn't want you to be with me because you feel sorry for me, or because you're a doctor so you feel compelled to take care of people, or . . ."

She watches him quietly for a moment until he flops back down onto his bench and hunches forward, resting his face in his hands. "First off," she says, a smile in her voice, "it was one date. A great date, yeah, but who knows if we'd even still be together by the time . . . anything happens with you? Do you really want to give up on this whole possibility based on a something that might not ever actually come up?"

He looks up, surprised, and she, feeling a bit daring, crosses to sit beside him on his bench. His hands are still in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees, and she reaches out carefully with one hand and laces her fingers with his. "And secondly, I liked you before I knew about the GSS."

He turns to look at her, dumbfounded surprise on his face, and she gives him a small smile. "Do you remember when you asked me to a concert last winter? I was with Malik then, and I was still pretty against the idea of dating a coworker, but even so . . . there was some tiny part of me that wanted to say yes." The ghost of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth, and she admits, "And actually, if you'd asked me last summer . . . I might have said yes then."

"Seriously?" he demands.

She shrugs. "It probably would have taken a while, but I think I would have come around."

He turns to stare blankly at the pool, blinking rapidly as he processes this, and she lifts her other hand and starts tracing patterns on the back of the hand she currently holds, because he hasn't pulled that hand away yet and she's starting to think that's a very good sign. "And then we started texting and hanging out recently," she says. She's looking down at their joined hands, but out of the corner of her eye she can tell he's turned to stare at her. "And I'd always known you were brilliant and generous—and cute—but I started realizing how funny you are, and what good company you are, and how there's so much more to you than this tech guru persona you wear in public, and I realized . . . that I like you."

He's still staring, and finally she looks up and meets his gaze. It's been a long time since she's been looked at like that, and she's suddenly aware of every place along her hand and arm and side that she's touching James. "I don't want to drag you down with me," he whispers.

"And I don't want to make decisions now based on things that might not happen for another ten years. Or at all, if the drug works. And if we are together when . . . you know, then I'll be here for you, and we'll figure things out from there." She hesitates, reaching out to smooth down the lapel on his suit jacket. "I just want to be with you," she says quietly. "That's enough for me right now."

Apparently it's enough for James as well, because he suddenly surges forward and kisses her, his free hand coming up to cup the side of her face, and it's even better than she thought it would be. He kisses her like his life depends on it; he touches her like he never thought he'd get a chance to do so; and she chastises herself for waiting so long to do this. Because now that she's kissing him, it all feels so obvious, like she should have been here in his arms all along.

When they break apart, an unexpected burst of joy surges through her, and she finds herself throwing her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck; his own arms tighten around her. He sounds breathless and dazed when he speaks. "Zoe, I . . ."

When it becomes clear he doesn't know how to finish the sentence, she just smiles. "Me too."

They sit out on that bench a few minutes longer, and exchange more kisses, finally settling down to watch the sun creep toward the horizon, with her head on his shoulder and him idly tracing patterns on her arm. They should probably do dinner at some point, she thinks, and basks in being able to say "they" now, and really mean it.

But before she can say anything, James finally speaks. "So . . . you want to go watch some TV?"

And she smiles, and turns her head up to plant a kiss on his cheek. "I'd love to."

o.o.o

fin


End file.
